I
didn’t recognize the psychological toll traveling in
Colombia was having on me until I’d been there for a
few weeks. Things had been nerve-wracking from the start.
My boyfriend, Bryan, and I were a few months into a six-month
“shoestring” backpacking trip through Central
and South America in 1997 when we found ourselves in Cartagena.
The city was described in the Lonely Planet as a “colonial
gem,” but it seemed like a place where locals badgered
gringos on cruises into taking tours of the city or buying
crap. Ready for a change of scenery, we boarded a bus bound
for Santa Marta, gateway to a coastal national park, Parque
Tayrona.
A few hours from our destination, the bus was inexplicably
stopped, and everyone started getting off. We overheard explanations
like “guerillas.” I asked a woman in Spanish what
was going on, and she held a finger to her lips in the “shhh”
gesture.
We ascertained that no buses would be traveling through until
the following day, so we got in a cab with two Israeli girls
who spoke English but no Spanish and were fresh out of their
mandatory military service. Naomi and Daniella were visibly
confused and frightened, so I didn’t mention that the
Planet descried Baranquilla – our home for the night
– as a “dirty, dangerous port” to avoid.
We decided to share a hotel room as the taxi pulled up to
a red light. A deranged, toothless man grabbed our cab driver’s
arm. The cabbie shook him off, cursing, got out of the car
(still cursing) and grabbed a boulder, threatening the man
to back off. The man countered by brandishing a shovel. At
this point, Naomi locked her door and put her head in my lap,
moaning: “I don’t like it; I don’t like
it at all.”
Meanwhile, in the front seat, Bryan was climbing to the driver’s
side to keep the cab from rolling into traffic, since the
cabbie hadn’t set the emergency brake.
Needless to say, once we reached the hotel, we started calling
our respective embassies to see if we were safe. I couldn’t
get through at first to the U.S. embassy, so I called the
U.K.’s. A nice British gentleman informed me that we
were actually in the safest region in the north and that down
south it was, “Red hot, if you know what I mean.”
He went on to fill me in on the repercussions of being an
American in such a region. “If you come to a guerilla
roadblock they’ll take you as a gringo or not, regardless
if you say you have no money or have no money,” he said.
“And sorry, but Uncle Sam is Enemy No. 1.”
After looking into flights, we learned that we couldn’t
afford to fly. We were stuck continuing our trip by land.
We spent the night consoling ourselves with pizza and beers
in a hotel, and the next morning took a taxi back to the bus.
During the taxi ride, the radio was blaring warnings about
road closures from guerillas or military cocaine busts. Eventually,
we made it to the park and spent several days enjoying the
ocean and sleeping in hammocks. Still, our fears were fueled
by traveler’s stories about robberies in Colombia, such
as the woman who had a large necklace torn right off her neck.
And all too soon it was time for another dreaded travel day.
About five hours into the trip – I was watching a subtitled
“Speed” – the bus stopped and men in fatigues
with big black guns boarded and barked some orders. All of
the passengers started filing out. I looked around and realized
that we were the only gringos, and I was the only female.
We got off and saw everyone standing spread-eagle with their
hands above their heads against the bus, holding IDs as the
men frisked them. I tried to stand next to Bryan and the man
separated us with his gun and said “Dama” and
pointed to another armed man. By now I was so paranoid that
I was convinced they’d plant drugs on Bryan to solicit
a bribe and take me in the woods and rape me. I thought about
running for it, but we were in the middle of nowhere. Then
it was over, and we were back on the bus – apparently,
as a woman, I didn’t need to be frisked.
Later we rolled into the town of Bucaramanga, famous for
its delicacy: fried ants. But it was a Sunday and banks were
closed. We only had enough money to buy a roll and two beers
at a liquor store where locals were drinking on plastic chairs.
We were something of a curiosity, and tried to keep to ourselves.
But then a slightly disheveled man in a business suit sat
down at our table and plunked two beers in front of us. He
spoke to us briefly in Spanish, then gestured to the beers
and said in halting English, “Good and bad people in
every country.” Then he left us with our beers.
I enjoyed Colombia a lot more after that. I tried to let
the irrational fears subside enough to notice the small boy
standing on the bus, singing along with the radio in a sweet
breathy voice about “matrimonial.” I laughed with
the locals who pulled Bryan’s ponytail and joked that
he was a guerilla because “all guerillas have long hair,”
and listened to men describe the women of drug cartel haven
Cali as the most beautiful women in the world. We drank coffee
at espresso stands, saw ancient statues and gothic churches
with testimonials of miracles engraved into a wall. I started
to see the good with the bad, and learned that if you’re
going to take risks, you might as well enjoy them.
– Jen Reeder
